Red
by BeneathTheVeil
Summary: Todd had lost himself in that moment. Todd/Lovett


She was determined to get him to notice her

Title: Red  
Author: Hannahharriet  
Rating: r  
Pairing: Todd/Lovett  
Summary: He'd broken, really, and he knew it as soon as he set eyes on her.  
Disclaimer: As always, I don't own these amazing characters or the world of Sweeney Todd. All of that belongs to Sondheim and Burton.

Author's Note: Wow, I'm beginning to scare myself with the whole dark thing I've got going on nowadays. I'm beginning to think that I need to encompass myself in black. Ah, I love Gothic writing. (Side note: I wrote this one-shot while listening to, strangely enough, Bach's Organ Preludes and Fugues. If anyone is interested, try Prelude and Fugue in F minor ( bwv 534). It's got a pretty good Gothic tone to it.)

She was determined to get him to notice her.

Mrs. Lovett wasn't one for extravagance, not anymore, especially in hard times like these, but the woman thought that her heart might in fact burst in two if she didn't soon do something, _anything_, to deserve some sort of attention from the man who, at that moment, pounded his feet upon the floorboards heavily upstairs.

It was early morning, the last reaches of night blending into the day. The clouds were heavy in the sky, of course, as they always were in London, but the sun, that day, threatened to battle through them. In her bedroom, Mrs. Lovett silently willed the sun to escape. It would simply give her the inspiration to do _something_ that would warrant attention.

With a loud sigh and a huff, Mrs. Lovett slipped out from under her bedding, which was still disappointingly unrumpled, and strode lazily to the closet in the corner of the room. Oh, years ago it had been filled with the best of perfumes, lace and silk and finery, and any quality dress she could afford. As much as she had loathed that forsaken husband of hers, she still had to give him some due…she was always well-clothed then.

Now was a different story. Mrs. Lovett often wore the same dress. She only had about three, one of which was almost in disrepair, and the other a once in style formal gown that had no place in a hot kitchen all day. Even that dress (oh, she had loved it so much years ago) was falling into tatters, and she thought of wearing it every day despite that little fact. But her sensible side always won the battle. She hadn't worn that dress (A beautiful green and gold) for at least fifteen years. The moths fluttered out of the closet after she creaked open the door. Peering inside, she grabbed the candle on the night table and walked in.

The flickering light hit the fraying wallpaper in the closet. Most of the tiny space was covered in old pieces of underwear and forgotten clothing. She'd sold Albert's clothing, long ago, which went for a pretty penny in the market right after he'd passed. Her own dresses she had kept longer, but years ago she had had to sell the more valuable ones when the meat got harder and harder to come by. Mrs. Lovett could have cried in that tiny closet, in despair and remembrance of better and brighter days.

She crept forward, only in her night gown, hair streaming down her back. She flicked an old corset with her bare foot into the corner of the closet and let out a tiny screech when a mouse scurried past her foot and into the bedroom. The woman waited for a moment, eyes closed, willing the emotional breakdown away. She shook her head, and continued forward, light filling the space.

She dug through piles of fabric, holes dotting each piece. She didn't know why she was doing this. Perhaps it was for inspiration, for some glimmer of hope in the articles of the past. As she threw a rotting leather shoe into the bedroom (Ah, the days when she could afford leather were long dead and gone), she caught a glimpse of a rumpled bag in the corner. She furrowed her brow, silently questioning the bag's contents. She didn't remember it, from past or from present.

Mrs. Lovett let the candle slip from her right hand to her left, reaching at the same time to grab the velvet bag. The light hit the black material, making it shimmer in the way only velvet does. Engrossed now, Mrs. Lovett dragged the bag out of the closet and into her room. Day was coming quicker now, a grayish light projecting throughout the room. She blew the candle out, the smoke lilting and dancing towards the ceiling.

Mrs. Lovett sat on the bed, pulling the bag with her. It was quite heavy, and contained something soft. She was surprised, with her exquisite memory, that she didn't remember it. The tie slipped as her long fingers played with the drawstrings. She slowly pulled back the velvet. And gasped.

She had forgotten, forgotten that she'd saved that one thing, for whatever future use, for one more key to remembering those better times. Red hit her eyes roughly, brilliantly, and as she pulled the garment from the bag, the flat colors of the room paling in comparison. Breath escaped her mouth in fascination and surprise. Perhaps there was one more way to catch his attention…

Mrs. Lovett dressed faster than she had ever done so before. She began pulling on her usual bloomers, and stopped. If she remembered correctly…

Yes, tucked inside the folds of the garment sat a beautiful lace chemise-drawer undergarment, an embroidered French corset nestled inside further. She pulled the clothing on, tying the corset on top of the lace with expert precision. A garter, too, hung limply from the bag, and she pulled the thing up and over her knee. A petticoat sat upon her hip, and she turned towards the stunning garment on the bed.

There were several pieces, so she had to hastily yet carefully pull them on. Her only pair of shoes, black boots lined with red lace strings, was tied with care. Mrs. Lovett began to tie her curls into the knotted mass that they usually hung in, but decided that leaving her hair down was for the best. Blush was smeared to her cheeks and chest (She'd heard that the stuff was frowned upon now, but she didn't give it a second though. Her mother had taught her that one could only be so pale before they resembled a cadaver). A kohl liner was drawn around her already dark eyes. A container of lip color, hidden for years, was removed from her bottom drawer and opened. Only the tiniest bit remained, but she remembered buying the stuff fondly. A trip to Paris, maybe seventeen years ago, had been the occasion, and she'd wandered away from Albert to buy the tiny container of Egyptian make up. They couldn't quite afford it, that lip color, but she didn't care. It was a better way to agitate her _dear_ Albert, and to catch the attention of her darling Benjamin.

Mrs. Lovett finished her preparation and turned slowly, carefully, to look into the dusty mirror by the small window. The light hit the mirror, and as she crept closer and into the light, she gasped.

She looked better than she had in years. Perhaps all she had needed was a little preparation and some inspiration. She glanced herself up and down, eyes wide. The dress fit her perfectly, as it had the one time she had worn it all those years before. It was the deepest of reds, dark, like a rose. The corset, tied tightly, made her figure appear younger in nature, and the red silk hugging her sides created the very essence of youth. The gown tied up the back, in black lace. Her shoulders remained bare, pale and structured, and the dress' sleeves hung from them. The skirt was layered, structured by a fine French maker. A bow of silk tied from the top of the bodice, and Mrs. Lovett let her hand skim over it and her bust. The corset and dress were cut low, lower than the things she usually adorned while working, but she wasn't working today, not in the kitchen, anyway. Her auburn hair, loose and free, cascaded down her back in ringlets and waves. Her face was immaculate, just as pale as it needed to be, with her cheeks reddened slightly. Her lips were a deep crimson and full. Her eyes, lined with the kohl, were darker and more mysterious than usual. She smirked to herself in the mirror. It felt wonderful to be trussed up again.

She wondered if dressing like this on a Sunday would be another strike against her in God's infinite record of sins. No matter. Anything to catch Mr. Todd's eye.

It would be an interesting day. There was no doubt about that.

………………………………………

Sweeney Todd was, at best, having a miserable morning. He hadn't slept the night before, and though this occurrence was not unusual (his Lucy had sworn that he was an insomniac), the weight of the last day's pains were fresh on his shoulders.

He pounded down the stairs angrily, thinking that some gin might help him wake up. He'd shaved countless customers yesterday, all for the minimum amount, just to get some sort of change rattling in his pocket. He needed better clothing, a finer shop. If he was to attract that judge, he'd need to lavish his surroundings in extravagance. Todd hissed to himself at that thought, out of revulsion of the man he scorned above all else in the world.

The door to Mrs. Lovett's shop was unlocked, and he dimly questioned himself if she left it unlocked all the time (or had meant to leave it unlocked…he truly didn't care for the woman, and wouldn't put it past her to whore herself to whatever filthy sailor graced into the shop). It was unsafe, it was, and he vaguely felt a tinge of regret at thinking of her as a whore. He was growing soft. Chuckling to himself at his own weakness, he let his body weight fall into the door.

"Bloody woman," he muttered to himself as he searched for the bottle of gin he knew was hiding in the cupboard. She must have taken it for herself, then, off into her room. He'd wait. Besides, he had been nursing a flask of whiskey yesterday and it was probably still in the parlor.

Todd strode through the door, grunting at the "cheery" wallpaper. There it was, on the end table. The liquid burning down his throat was heaven. If only his eyes weren't burning.

………………………………………

It wasn't until around three o' clock that Sweeney Todd finally saw Mrs. Lovett. It was unusual, he had noted throughout the day, that she wasn't poking herself into his own personal matters throughout the morning. In fact, he had also noted, he hadn't seen the woman all day. Todd only felt a sprinkling of confusion, but dismissed it as he shaved yet another squabbling man off of the London streets.

That one was especially rowdy, obnoxious. Oh, how the people of London had changed. When it had once seemed that most were respectable and only some misfits years ago, now it seemed as though the entire population of London had turned into the lowest of classes, mere industrial workers living off of stale bread and bad gin. Todd could slit the man's throat with his razor, he really could.

Deep inside, Todd knew that he was becoming more aggressive. Even with the sallow and dull expression he held on his face, he could feel his insides churning in anger at even the slightest provocation. In fact, he had been feeling a nagging, persistent bloodlust growing within him. At first it had terrified him. But now, oh now, he could imagine himself letting his razor, his friend, slide through this insolent man's sweaty neck.

He let the image fade, though, because apparently he was done with his work, and handed the man a towel with a grunt. As he left, Todd remembered Mrs. Lovett and her odd absence. He decided that it would be for the best to go downstairs, where he knew her shop remained closed (If it weren't for the lack of customers, he knew she'd open up shop on Sunday, regardless of whatever religious propriety the day was supposed to hold).

As he descended the wooden stairs with a distinctive clunk, he remembered the thoughts he had had on her earlier…that she was a whore, a slut, nothing but the sorriest of street urchins in London. And here he was, closing up shop for a few minutes (that was precious money, that was) to check on the woman. He rammed it into his head that he wasn't going down to see her. He was going to get that much needed glass of gin.

He barreled through the shop door, wholly expecting to see Mrs. Lovett busy about her baking. But the woman wasn't even in the room. He squinted, confused, and shook his head, reaching for the glass of gin that was temptingly sitting on the table. He decided that it wouldn't be a proper break if he went back upstairs, so he sat gingerly upon one of the booths in the corner of the shop.

"Mr. T! Haven' seen ya all day, love," he heard from behind, a deep and rich voice, accented strongly by Cockney. Along with the woman came the usual sounds of her bustling about; pots clanking, shoes scuffing, skirts rustling. He didn't even turn to look. Somewhere deep inside he knew that if he did look, he would be digging himself into a deeper whole. He had not, after all, come down here to see her. Only for gin…only the gin…

"Lotsa customers yer gettin' there…'lot for a Sunday, tha' is," she continued, and he groaned inwardly at how the woman could ramble.

She continued, chatting incessantly. He simply sat there and sipped at the gin. When she mentioned something about the rent, he took a large gulp of the liquid, wincing as it burned its way down his throat. He'd kill himself with the stuff, and he wouldn't mind, as long as he'd killed the judge before that time. He wanted to yell, to tell her to stop her yapping, but something also told him to let her talk, that it was who she was, who he remembered her to be.

Benjamin had long sat in this very shop, catching a quick lunch in between customers. He'd been respected then. All of London's finest would come to Barker for the smoothest shave in the city. But in those rare moments when there was a lull in the number of customers lining up the stairs to the shop, he would creep downstairs to sit with kindly Mrs. Lovett, the baker. He hadn't quite loved Mr. Lovett, his landlord, who was by trade a butcher and showed it with his abrupt and violent nature. Despite this, he would avoid Mr. Lovett to sit with Mrs. Lovett, alone with her at a corner booth, just like the one Sweeney Todd sat in now. They would talk and talk, and Barker found her to be an agreeable companion. Sweeney Todd, glowering in the darkness, remembered those times. He'd quite liked Mrs. Lovett, even cared for the woman…

"Mr. Todd? Are ya listenin' to me?" He groaned inwardly again. That question. Always that question. To which he would always reply:

"Yes, yes, of course." And she would reply, always:

"Yeah, well wha' did I say then?"

And he would continue staring into space, lost in his thoughts, of the past, of revenge, and she would leave him be. But not today.

"Mr. T."

He was slightly taken aback when she called to him. She usually let him alone. He continued staring emotionlessly, not letting his thoughts grace his face. Insolent woman.

"Love," she continued, tone soothing. "Didn' I tell ya to wait, love? 'e'll come, 'e will. I promise ya tha'. Whatever it takes, we'll get 'im to come."

He wondered what exactly 'whatever it takes' meant. The woman was devoted like nothing he had ever seen before. Not even his beloved Lucy would have-

He stopped himself from thinking that. Anything but that. He would never compare anyone to Lucy, no one, ever. That feeling rose in him again, the one of hatred, of bloodlust. It scared him horribly, that feeling. He supposed that somehow Barker was trying to escape back to the surface. Sweeney Todd would not let that happen.

"Mrs. Lovett," he began, his voice little more than a growl. "It drives me mad, and you know that. I want him _now_, his blood spilled. You _know_ that I can't wait anymore."

He heard her coming closer, sensed her. "I want to see it, Mrs. Lovett. Feel it. Bathe in it. In the red. I _must_ have it, Mrs. Lovett." With that final growl, he turned in the booth to look at her. He instantly regretted it.

The sight that met him was not what he had expected. He had expected to see the haggard, run-down Mrs. Lovett of today, not the kindly and sweet Nellie of the past. He stared at her, eyes wide, and when she smiled, he inhaled. There she stood, her usual giving, submissive self, except that instead of hair flying in all directions and dress ripped and torn she was primped and proper, still pale as a ghost, yes, but with the reddest of rouges upon her lips.

Red.

His eyes widened, livened. They made a journey from her eyes (endlessly brown) down to her laced boots. Red. Everywhere. It was beautiful…

Todd stood slowly, as though in a trance, eyes never separating from her. He could imagine it now, the blood, spilling and flying and filling the room with its color. And then there was Mrs. Lovett, like a beautiful ruby, standing there, shadowed eyes wide. He towered over her, looming, and yet she didn't move, didn't even flinch in the slightest. She looked into his eyes with an equal, if not more sane, passion.

He was hit with memories from the past, thoughts and dreams of the future. She stood there, a precarious link to both, with her auburn hair and her blood red lips. Something broke inside him. He couldn't suppress the sound of his throat catching.

"My God…" he whispered, trailing away. She remained standing there, eyes drifting down, from his eyes to his lips, eyelids closing.

He wanted to scream again, to yell, to flee. His head pounded and he didn't even know why. He knew he was being foolish, that this psychological assault that his own mind was staging against him was ridiculous. He was here for one reason, and one alone. Revenge….vengeance…the judge…

"My God, Mrs. Lovett."

………………………………………

Her heart had stopped then. As soon as he had risen from his seat, gin dropping from his hand, she knew that something had clicked within his mind. He wasn't sure, though, if she should be happy or terrified. Instead, she chose to be shamelessly open.

As he walked closer, she felt her stomach flip. Her heart pounded against her chest. She could imagine her blood rushing through her body, just as exhilarated as she was. Her eyes locked with his, and she knew that, through them, his mind was deep in thought. His look frightened her, but not enough for her to step back from him. No, she would never refuse him. Of anything.

"My God, Mrs. Lovett," he'd said, only a breath of his voice. And then his lips had crashed down upon hers with such force that she'd had to grab onto his shoulders to right herself (it wasn't only the force of the kiss that had her stumbling backwards, of course. Her knees had given out before he had even reached his destination). Her arms instantly found their way around his neck, apprehensive at first, but then engulfing as soon as he didn't hit her away.

"Mr. Todd…" she whispered against his lips, utterly confused and yet utterly entranced. He only kissed her harder, his tongue skimming her bottom lip and begging entrance into her mouth.

"Love," she continued, cupping his cheek in her hand as his tongue began dancing with hers. She let her fingers glide down his face, his neck, his shoulders, feeling what she had craved for nearly two decades. His hand found its way to her waist, skimming and feeling, and she let her other hand cover his, pressing him tighter to her.

And then, as soon as it had started, it was over. He ripped his mouth from hers, eyes wide. He stumbled backwards and she struggled to keep her balance. She instantly felt the tears blossoming under her eyelids.

He stood motionless, staring wide eyed at the wooden floor of the shop. She felt the pain running through him, engulfing him just like the chills were engulfing her now. She saw confusion in his eyes and wished that she could go to him, so lost and helpless. He stumbled backwards slightly, finally raising his head to look into her eyes again. There was something else there then, and she stepped back in apprehension. His eyes seemed to glow, like a demon's, and she gasped as he moved towards her.

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words emerged. She felt the slightest warmth and trickle of something in the corner of her lip, and with a hand wiped at it. Pulling her hand away, Mrs. Lovett looked at the rose liquid on her finger. The blood must have escaped when he'd nibbled at her lip.

She felt her heart pound harder and faster when she noticed that Todd was looking not into her eyes, but at her lips, something she'd taken for lust. But no…he was staring hungrily at the blood, straight to where the red drops had dripped down from her mouth to the pale white of her cheek and chin.

She couldn't speak from a mix of fear and fascination. Her emotions battled against each other. And yet she knew, if he was to approach her, there would be nothing she could do to overpower him…physically or emotionally.

He closed in and grabbed her by the sides, hauling her towards and into him, and with the most passionate look she had ever seen before, he let his mouth consume hers. His eyes slid closed, and she remained frozen there, fascinated by this man, this monster, suckling away at the blood running from her lips.

………………………………………

When he'd gone back the second time, it hadn't had a thing to do with the past. That bridge that she was serving as between past and present was completely severed. With the sight of that blood, those perfect rubies, she was no longer sweet Nellie Lovett of the past. Oh no, she was his bloodlust personified, draped in the deepest red, beautiful beneath all of that. He couldn't contain himself then if he'd tried.

He backed her into a wall, hands roaming her sides and brushing at the crimson silk. He licked at the blood, and she willingly let him, even letting her lips fall against his as the wound would stop its crying. The pressure would only make it start again, and he would kiss away the liquid after.

He pushed her backwards into the parlor, and from there into her bedroom, which she opened with a groping hand on the doorknob. She was thrown onto the bed, gasping, and he was on top of her in split seconds, hands everywhere, untying the black laces, stripping her of shoes and stockings. Her hands greedily skimmed up his back and back down, feeling him, ripping away at the vest that blocked his body from hers. He felt her bosom rising and falling beneath him, so exquisitely displayed for him (Oh, yes, he knew it was for him, even in his emotional stupor). He felt her, and she wrapped her drawered legs against his torso as he began undoing the corset that wrapped itself around her.

A red garter around her leg flew across the room, not before he'd inhaled its scent. He'd always loved her scent, even in the past…violet and musk and firewood.

He made love to her, if he was really making love to _her_, and she almost burst beneath him. He'd never been so passionate in his entire life. She'd never been so complete. And even during the whole affair, he'd frequently glance at the discarded clothing on the floor, at the dress, at her wild auburn hair. It was all he needed. Red.

Blood red.


End file.
